


Argo Navis

by azure7539



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 08:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13477440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: Here's the thing about navigating through landmines: you'll never know if that next step will be your end.And now, it seems Death has finally caught up with him.





	Argo Navis

**Author's Note:**

> After much delay and procrastination, here is my RBB contribution fic written for the lovely 10kiaoi, who has been absolutely _fantastic_ to work with from start to finish, and who has also been my co-conspirator. Their artwork is **stunning** and I just knew the moment I saw it that I had to claim it, even though at that point, the hatching plot in my brain was gibberish at best. You can find the full artwork [here](http://10kiaoi.tumblr.com/post/170123581767/signed-up-for-00qreversebang-last-year-and). Please drop by their tumblr page [here](http://10kiaoi.tumblr.com/) and give them all the love and support they deserve! 
> 
> At first, I only thought this would become a long fic to write, and I would most probably be able to split it into 2 parts. I was right about splitting it into two parts, and entirely underestimated just how monstrous the fic would come to be, and how much it would consume me. And it's not even finished yet!

In retrospect, Q supposes he has always known this is coming. It is as if the shadows have been swarming all around him, whispering and cold and seeping under his skin before morphing into something monstrous that he has never been able to see—other than that tiny voice in the back of his mind that keeps telling him to _run. Run. RUN._

He didn’t.

And like the slouching ominous mass that it is, it seems Death has finally caught up with him.

 

**18 JULY, 2011.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

The usually buzzing control room was shrouded in a thick, subdued air. He cleared his throat a little and tried to focus back on the current situation, mentally shushing his hands from flexing restless by his sides, their slightly sweaty palms chilled in the always cold, temperature-controlled room.

“Your equipment,” R said with a tight smile as he opened the briefcase. “A pair of ear-pieces for coordination, radio, and a Walther PPK/ 9mm… The last one included per my own discretion.”

He nodded once, the motion a little jerky as his eyes swept over the tech, all standard issue that they gave out to their own agents as well, and felt a sudden swell of what seemed like resignation.

He licked his lips, and forced a smile as well. “Thanks, R.”

It was going to be a simple in-and-out mini mission for him, working as what they called ‘field tech support’… (The name made it sound almost benign and easy, which was not the case more often than not, and it only served to amplify the fact that the term felt more like an insult than anything.) Originally a solo Double-O mission, everything took a sharp turn when they realised that the only way to hack into and control any part of the target’s facility at all was for them to gain remote access via manual insertion of their programs into the mainframe.

“We can never be too careful, Q.” R sighed.

“You know better than to call me ‘Q,’ R,” he said with a tinge of heat on his cheeks. It started out as a joking remark from one of the people from Accounting last time they happened to be down in Q-Branch during one of the smaller missions that Boothroyd let him run. (“Kid looks like he’s the up-and-coming Q, Major.”) And somehow, it stuck, despite Boothroyd being there, despite R himself as the next possible candidate for the post after the Major retired.

They were the two people who encouraged it the most, at any rate.

“And you know how the Major and I feel about it.” R smiled.

It was a nickname grown out of fondness, he knew. But Q didn’t like it as such because he was not even R yet himself… but also (mostly) because he actually rather liked the sound of it, and just this alone made him feel like a right bastard for the slight flutter in his stomach whenever someone from Q-Branch addressed him as such. The name was starting to spill over to people from other departments as well.

Q sighed and shook his head in mock exasperation as he took the briefcase, checked over the equipment in one quick sweep of his eyes, and closed it.

The muffled clicks of the latches locking turned R’s expression grim again, and he handed Q a packet. “Your papers and the alias you’ll be using.” He paused. “You know I wouldn’t let you go out there if I had any say in the matter.”

Q cleared his throat and took it with yet another nod, securing it under his arm. “I know, R.” He tried another smile that felt like it stretched the skin on his cheeks a tad too much. “Ta.”

For a moment there, silence rang across the room before gradually dissipating from the air as the sound of the telly on low ushered itself into existence once more.

“That’s a big fire,” R whispered, watching the live coverage from one of the news channels that someone had put there on their widescreen display—the main reason that had gotten most people so down that evening. And Boothroyd was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into some urgent meeting with M a while back.

The fire had been going on for at least an hour already, and was just starting to show signs of dying down. No one knew what happened, how the flames started in the first place, and where, but its effects were already devastating enough as it was.

 _“This is one of the biggest and most damaging fires in London’s residential area in the last decade,”_ a reporter at the scene informed, a grave look on her face. “ _According to some eyewitnesses’ accounts, smokes began rising—"_

Q tore his eyes from the screen finally and straightened up. “I should get going.”

“Good luck on your mission, Q. Contact us if you need any help.”

 

-

-

 

**25 JULY, 2011.**

**BAGHDAD, IRAQ.**

**11:09:37.**

 

_“Told you that would work.”_

Bond rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help a small smirk either way. The tech support was a kid, and a prat, but one that he found he could actually come to appreciate under the right circumstances… mainly with Bond not being shot at, that is.

It didn’t help that he wasn’t hard on the eyes either.

Despite Bond’s initial myriad of doubts, the second his eyes landed on the lanky young man—who had looked as though he was already lightheaded from the smouldering heat, his bespectacled, youthful face glistening with a thin sheen of sweat—he had been pleasantly surprised by Q’s level of effectiveness and composure under pressure, smooth as glass and a collected calm that seemed almost beyond his age and level of experience.

The mag slid into place. Bond took aim and began emptying it toward incoming enemies as he advanced through the maze of polished hallways, escaping whizzing bullets and navigating with Q’s instructions.

(He had raised an eyebrow when old Boothroyd first called the kid ‘Q’, but quickly caught on and used it himself, if nothing then just to see that look of annoyance shot his way.

Although, to be perfectly honest, he didn’t care what name was appropriate, ranking-wise, as long as he had the necessary assistance to get the job done.)

 _“Take that first right. The vault will be at the end of the hallway,”_ Q said, the little voice in his ear neutral and cool as a running stream, as though its owner hadn’t barricaded himself inside the central network room of this entire facility roughly forty-five minutes ago, and was still there right then. _“Prepare the fingerprint, and install the device the moment the scan is started. We have less than five minutes before the code is changed.”_

“Yes, mother,” Bond mumbled, ducking from the nonstop onslaught of bullets from the two men standing guards, just as expected. He extracted a small vial of what had been designed to look like a perfume sample out of its protective casing ( _“for your distraction needs,”_ Q had said, and Bond, of course, couldn’t but smirk), shook it, and slid the thing across the floor as close as he could get to the guards without bypassing them.

Once the thick smoke sizzled out of containment and burst, successfully hindering free airflow of any poor bastards that happened to inhale it, Bond was already there to shoot the guards down, making good use of the remaining bullets.

It was then that he heard a loud ringing from the other side of the comms.

“Q?” He kicked the guards to ascertain they were down for the count and pressed the fingerprint they had harvested onto the scanner. It didn’t take much effort from there to install the device Q had given him with the required digital retinal scan reading inside. “Come in, Q.”

_“Under two minutes.”_

“Are you under attack?” he pressed.

 _“Nothing to worry about. Focus on your mission, 007,”_ Q replied, and Bond’s eye twitched when he heard the tell-tale gunfire.

“Do you need back up?” the agent enunciated, counting the seconds before the hack was complete. The mission came first, always, but he wasn’t about to turn into one of those cold-blooded creatures who ignored any and all collateral damages so long as they were the means to an end. It wasn’t that he was delusional about whether he had stooped that low himself or not, but innocent lives were still innocent lives, and there was a difference.

Besides, Q had been entirely too efficient and helpful to let die so easily. He wasn’t some bumbling, expendable techie; he was clearly an asset, and Bond had even begun to understand why Boothroyd seemed fond enough of this boy to refer to him as ‘Q’ for a nickname. For God’s sake, he seemed to be doing that much better than some of the junior field operatives that Bond had seen.

 _“It’s under control,”_ Q repeated, quite forcefully this time. Bond imagined he could hear a bit of wavering there, but through the static, he couldn’t actually tell. _“They’ve sent a counterattack team your way, and I know for a fact you’ve just run out of bullets. You have to get into that vault and retrieve the missing thumb drive now.”_

And right on cue, pounding footsteps were approaching, accompanied by shouts, only a short distance away.

_“Go. I’ve made sure to jam communications; they won’t be able to get into that vault easily if they can’t get the current password.”_

Bond gritted his teeth.

_“This is an order, 007. Go. Now.”_

The first shots were fired just as the four-inch titanium door clicked open. And Bond slipped inside, grabbing a fallen gun nearby.

He had orders to follow.

 

-

 

It didn’t take him long to find the thumb drive containing stolen research that could be turned into a lethal chemical weapon in the wrong hands, an imminent threat to possibly millions of people.

If the angry, muffled Arabic outside was anything to do by, they were planning on manually taking down the door. Or the wall surrounding it anyway, which, while enforced, couldn’t be more of a challenge than a titanium door. Quite a smart move, Bond would give them that, but right then, he wasn’t too focused on those goons anyway.

The vault was designed so that no signal could neither get in or out of it. That meant he couldn’t reach Q, and the silence on the comms was fast determining an outcome that Bond didn’t believe he would quite appreciate that much.

He recounted the floor plan he had learnt to figure out the most probable route of retreat while checking on the gun and how much firepower it had left. There originally had been an escape plan that would ensure at least an 80% chance of them arriving safely at their designated extraction point, but it had all gone tits up the moment the alarm was somehow tripped and started this whole mess in the first place.

Probably done by some overly-paranoid sod, but it was no longer Bond’s concern.

The sudden rumbling in the ground (an indication of an explosion), however, as well as the subsequent silence, were.

Alert on high, Bond raised his gun, crouched down to take optimal position, and waited. There was no telling what was going on beyond these walls, and if any of it boded well for him. Double-Os were known for their recklessness, but Bond wasn’t about to burst out charging into the unknown—after all, the only way to get this thumb drive out of here was for him to stay alive for long enough to do so.

And so he waited for whoever it was to open the door, counting the seconds in his head.

One.

Two.

Thre—

“Double-O Seven!”

His eyes widened.

“Open this door, we need to leave!”

(Whatever it was that compelled him to do as such, Bond would need to investigate later.)

All the guards from the dispatch team were on the ground, either unconscious or dead, when he came out.

One look in Q’s green eyes behind the smudged glasses and another nod, they armed themselves and were already running.

“How did you—”

“Air ducts,” Q replied simply. “To ensure operable air quality this deep underground, they’d need wide air ducts for cooling and circulating air. Enough to fit me. And I just dropped them a taste of their own medicine from there.”

A bomb.

“This way.” Q nodded to their left. Covering for them both, Bond followed without another question.

 

-

 

“Really?”

_(25 JULY, 2011._

_IRAQI AIRSPACE._

_14:32:15)_

“After all that, and you’re still sticking to just hot tea?” Bond was sitting there with a small smirk on his lips, and he even had the audacity to grin when Q scoffed.

“Leave me alone,” Q murmured with a roll of his eyes as he fished the tea bag out of his paper cup of steaming hot water.

If Bond saw the slight tremor in his hand, well, he never mentioned it. (For which Q was glad, but no, he was never going to admit that aloud.)

At least the flight back was spent in companionable enough silence. Surprisingly so.

 

-

-

 

**25 JULY, 2011.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

**22:16**

 

Stretching and sucking in a breath, Q climbed out of the sleek, MI6-issued car with a suppressed groan, and thanked the driver before dragging his messenger bag, and the aching mass of his body, inside. The mission had taken longer than expected, and he had gotten more… involved than he would’ve liked. And that was putting it mildly.

R had literally hugged him when he got back, and the Major had squeezed him on the shoulder long enough that Bond must’ve thought he was getting off the hook from the usual lecture of not bringing his equipment back in one piece.

But no. He got what he deserved, which, in a way, seemed quite satisfying, given all the jabs Bond had dealt him with about his age and bloody complexion, of all things… up until the point where he didn’t anymore. Either he had had enough of Q’s quips, or he had actually come to an understanding that Q was not some helpless techie for him to bully into cowering.

Whichever it was, Q thought and rubbed the nape of his neck as he yawned and opened the door to his flat, he was entirely too exhausted right then to peruse.

And frankly, he didn’t have much care about it either. Not right then.

It wasn’t as if the man’s rugged looks had managed to charm Q into overlooking his cockiness anyway.

“Oh God. Elliott, is that you?!”

“Claire, I—!”

But before he got a chance to say anything, Q already found himself pulled into another hug, this time from his flatmate. And despite his wince, because a couple of bruises were just too fresh, he didn’t push her away.

The cats had finally jotted over and were yowling at their feet, winding themselves at Q’s ankles in particular.

“Oh, you total jerk! I was about to call the bloody police because you said were coming back _two days ago_!” She kicked the door shut with worry-fuelled anger, her eyes bloodshot. “I actually thought that some bugger had gotten to you overseas or something!”

Q laughed a little, and couldn’t stop even as Claire told him that it wasn’t funny. “Sorry, Claire… I just…” He cleared his throat and swallowed back the awkwardness in his tone. “Something went wrong with the project last minute, and I had to stay back and fix it.”

She knew nothing about his work at MI6, Claire, and he hoped for it to stay that way. Aside from it being not the most convenient thing in the world to tell one’s flatmate, Claire was the type to over-worry. Even though he appreciated that she cared, which was all very endearing, it could be a bit overbearing sometimes once she managed to latch onto something and begin nit-picking about it.

(One time, it was the amount of cup noodles he had consumed during the course of the week Claire had left to visit her grandmother. And sure enough, he didn’t see another one of them in the flat again for the next three months or so, much to his dismay.)

“And you couldn’t have called?” Claire crossed her arms in front of her chest.

Q was petting Reggie and Alan by now, partly to show them how much he missed them also, and partly to distract Claire from cracking down too hard on him.

“There was no signal?” he replied using his most innocent voice, and Claire rolled her eyes.

“Of course there wasn’t,” she snorted, and in the dim light of the flat, Q frowned, his eyes finally catching something that was peeking out from behind her fringe just so.

“Is that a plaster on your forehead?” He raised an eyebrow.

Her hand subconsciously twitched up to said plaster. “Oh! Yeah, it is. Thanks to your precious babies no less. I fell down and hit my head when they ran past my foot just as I was about to put it down.” She didn’t sound nearly as miffed as she seemed, aside from shaking her head in minor exasperation.

“Uh oh. And did you two apologise?” He scratched the cats behind their ears, and the two menaces were purring up a storm.

“If you count them barfing up fur balls for me to clean up, then yes.”

Q blinked up at her and studied Claire’s face, all grim seriousness now. “You sure you’re all right, though?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Of course I am. It’s not the first time this happened anyway. Come on.” Claire sighed, the lines of her shoulders softening as she went over to tug at the strap of his bag. “There’s leftover spaghetti.”

“Ooh, yum.” He followed her to the kitchen, and the smell and sight of home truly did wonders with calming his nerves down, residual tension from that last mission ebbing away finally. “Thanks, Claire,” Q said. He watched her pile spaghetti into a bowl and put it into the microwave with cling film over it. “You know I would’ve called if I could.”

“I know, I know,” Claire replied over her shoulder. “I was just worried, is all.”

And Q returned her small smile.

 

-

-

 

**1 AUGUST, 2011.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

It was back to business as usual, and Q didn’t know whether or not he should feel relieved about that. (In the back of his mind, he thought he could still smell the smoke, hear the screams, feel fresh blood sticky and warm on his skin, but at the same time, he told himself firmly that _no_ , they were all just phantoms.

Echoes.)

Both he and Bond submitted their separate reports on the mission, and for the most parts, their accounts coincided well on major issues, and were equally as dry and succinct. Q knew because he had accessed into the filing system, per his own liberty, to have a look through Bond’s own, those restless voices in his head refusing to shut up until he had made damn well sure that Bond hadn’t written anything… _compromising_ about him.

(And he didn’t.)

( _Good._ )

Q went through his normal routine with exterior ease, the systematic mechanism both soothed and ruffled his mind at the same time. And it annoyed him, like an elusive glitch in his sensory processing plant that he couldn’t even begin to properly place, let alone find and exterminate.

“You really should’ve taken the week off,” R said as he offered Q some of the butter biscuits that he always had on him wrapped in packets.

Q shook his head. “I’m fine.” He had long since lost count on exactly how many times he had said this, not that he was keeping track at all obviously.

R hummed. He seemed sceptical, but relented in the end, work calling the both of them: him, with some more important, operation-related issue that had suddenly arisen; and Q with his current tasks in TSS, the distant sound of the whirring lift indicating that someone was coming.

To be perfectly frank, Q didn’t know what his official position was in Q-Branch. Sometimes, he would be assisting in R&D other times, he would either be in TSS, or shadowing Boothroyd and R. It kept him busy, what with stretching himself out in all sorts of directions requested of him, but restless all the same because the more he thought about it, the more he didn’t understand what they wanted from him.

He belonged in no departments at any full-time capacity. And while he couldn’t say he minded it much, as he still enjoyed his work here, but with all the hectic chaos that this entire institution hailed, a semblance of stability would honestly be more than somewhat welcomed. Anything that was more tangible than a dangled treat, really.

Some might even say the fact that he was all over the place was a testament to his ‘resourcefulness.’

Q said it was just a load of horse-shite.

“Mr Tanner,” Q greeted cordially enough. He did like the chief of staff after all, and there was no sense in displaced frustration at any rate.

“Tanner. Or Bill is fine.” Tanner smiled. “I come down here enough.”

Q’s mirrored smile widened a bit as he adjusted his glasses. “What can I help you with today?”

“Ah yes. I came down here last week to have a routine check-up on this—” he handed over one of their older models of issued tablets to Q, “—and everything was fine. But I noticed that there has been more prominent lags recently, and you guys did say to report all these small details so you can improve on them later?”

They had been trying to further internalise their system and keep it as closed circuit as they could from the rest of the world to prevent any possible leaks. Hence, MI6-issued electronics.

“We did. Let me take a look and get back to you on it later?” Q said, frowning at the device, before standing up to fetch Tanner a new one. “Do you want to keep using your old tablet after I figure out what’s going on with it, or do you want to start fresh with this one? I can upload your personalised workspace layout onto this as well to make the transition more convenient.”

“Please, if you can?” Tanner said politely. He had always been a surprisingly gentle and considerate man, despite being M’s right-hand man and essentially holding more power than many thought he did, given his demeanour.

“Of course. It’ll take just a minute.”

 

-

 

Q’s eyes leered over to where Bond was standing, looking as though he owned the place in that fetching dark navy blue suit.

“Double-O Seven,” he greeted crisply, settling the files in his arms down onto the workbench before him. The man’s presence was like a walking, breathing reminder of that mission just barely a week ago, but no, Q wasn’t actively trying to make that simile at all.

Bond tilted his head to the side, the infuriating little smirk on his lips widening, almost shark-like. However, in a way, for whatever reason, Q could somehow sort of tell that this was already comparably… tamer than the man’s usual brand of cockiness.

“Q,” Bond replied, the tone of his words low. “You settled back in well.”

There was almost a hint of a jab there—not cruel, but one that Q elected to ignore. “Your equipment for the next mission.” He turned to pick the suitcase up, lie it down, and open it for Bond to observe the content. “Walther PPK/S 9mm short. Earpiece. Exploding pen—” his eye twitched a little; Q had always thought this to be a rather crude device, having seen it in action more than enough times. Boothroyd and R loved it, though, and so did the agents as it meant they got the chance to blow things up into pieces. However, based on statistics, as well as his own personal opinion, these miniature explosives hidden in mundane objects seemed more like liabilities than anything. “And a watch.”

When he looked up, Bond was much closer now. Closer than he had expected. And it took Q every ounce of his self-control not to jump at their sudden proximity, watching Bond reach one leather-gloved hand to pick up the wristwatch for inspection.

The design wasn’t too bad, Q supposed. But for a man like Bond, it would’ve been better, he thought, had the chrome been more polished, more precise in its cuts. Sharper.

But alas, Q was only here for the outfitting.

“Does it do anything?” Blue eyes glinted with amusement, and Q shot him a levelled look.

“It tells the time. For your punctuality issues.”

Bond scoffed a little, a strange turn in his expression. What that meant, Q couldn’t really tell. He had never been particularly good at reading people other than the very basic cues he had learnt to make sure he was never too out of his depth), but after a few seconds the man pocketed the watch with one fluid gesture, closed the suitcase, and placed one hand on top of it as leverage to lean in even farther.

Their faces were only one-hand length apart now.

“Tell me, why are you ‘Q’ when you’re not even Boothroyd’s official second-in-command?”

Seemed like Bond had found something to keep himself busy in-between missions then.

Q arched an unimpressed brow, trying to quell the sudden flare of anger when he saw no condescending suggestions in either the man’s face or words, and once more elected to ignore the question in favour of handing over Bond’s ‘official’ documents for this round of mission. “Do bring the equipment back in one piece,” Q replied instead, just a tad tartly.

Double-O Seven straightened up, perhaps finally comprehending that he wasn’t about to get any form of answer out of Q from his fishing, and smoothed down the front of his jacket. “No promises.” He winked mischievously then tucked his tickets and passport away.

“You know,” Bond began, almost like an afterthought as he was already heading toward the exit, “You’re wasted as an auxiliary tech.”

Q snorted—as if he hadn’t already known that—and made a face when Bond chuckled back and left with a ‘thank you’ and no backward glance.

“Bastard,” he mumbled to the empty room.

But really, Q wasn’t half as annoyed as he thought he’d be. Surprisingly so.

 

His phone buzzed, nearly startling Q out of his skin:

_Major wants to see you in 5. — R_

 

-

-

 

Some show or another was playing on the telly in the background, and Q wasn’t quite paying attention as he munched on his spoonful of avocado ice-cream. Claire laughed from where she was curled up on the other end of the sofa, legs tucked under her.

He pursed his lips, trying to keep his mind from winding.

“Ow!” His head snapped toward her when a toe jabbed into his side.

“You’re not watching it.” She raised an eyebrow and shot him a pointed look.

“I am,” he huffed, shuffling away from her toe, lip curling in mock disdain.

“You’re still as bad a liar as you were in uni,” she mumbled with a shake of the head, then turned her attention back to the telly with another spoonful of vanilla ice-cream.

Whatever chatter from the programme droned on, going in one ear and exiting the other, and most details blurred into one as his mind wound in a looping circle of the conversation he had had earlier with M and Boothroyd.

Reggie jumped onto the sofa all of a sudden, startling him out of his spiralling thoughts, then proceeded to climb into his lap and turn a few times before snuggling up against him in a curled ball of soft fur, all purring like an approving engine.

Claire giggled, and he sighed with a rueful smile, scratching the creature behind its ear.

 

-

-

 

**14 SEPTEMBER, 2011.**

**LOCATION: CLASSIFIED.**

There was a bumbling handler on the other side of the comms, sounding for all the world like they had just started this job the very same week. It wasn’t that the situation was dire by any means; it also wasn’t that Bond was in any actual need of assistance. No, he was just bored, because even as he meandered along the streets to trace the steps of his target, the mission didn’t have enough of its usual teeth to graze at his nerves (hence why there was a newbie on the line with him in the first place, anyway), and being the adrenaline junkie that he was, he needed more stimulation.

Stimulation that the nervous, tiny voice in his ear didn’t exactly provide. And the heat of this place only made him that much more irritable, patience a short fuse that he only reserved for special occasions.

 _“007,”_ a calm, even tone spoke up after a few muffled rustles, exasperation clear and deliberate. Familiar.

Bond smiled like the cat that got the canary. “There you are,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “And where have you been?” Q-Branch had been going round in circles, even trying to get R on the line despite knowing Bond hated working with him (too much of a stickler for rules and tried too hard to operate on an actual schedule that didn’t make sense to have), before eventually putting Q on.

 _“Nowhere that you should concern yourself with,”_ Q replied without missing a beat. _“I heard you’ve been insisting on me. Why?”_

The way Q just went straight for the jugular, sparing no preamble nor warning, had blood racing through Bond’s veins. He had always enjoyed himself a challenge, and a challenge all wrapped up in barbs and intellect was that much more difficult to resist.

“Why not?” he toned his voice down a notch lower, smooth as glass. “We work well together.”

 _“You and I have operated on only one mission together, 007,”_ said Q, and the wording along with how everything was arranged into that sentence had Bond’s smile widening. Because a pretence of prim professionalism aside, he could sense in there the fluttering wings of a playful bird taking off into the tall sky.

 

-

 

“And do you know what he said next? ‘Let’s work on rectifying that _huge_ oversight together then, shall we, Q?’” Q scoffed and stabbed at his salad. His voice, even at its lowest baritone, couldn’t quite mimic the way Bond had said that—like the words just curled and dripped down his velvet tongue.

Eve’s smirk was borderline Cheshire. “Well,” she began slowly, swallowing down a sip of water, “it _is_ consistent with what I’ve heard of him so far.”

He shouldn’t be telling her these things, in all honesty. Even though she was a candidate in the last stages of her training to become an active field agent, this was still related to a classified mission that she shouldn’t know of. Not yet, anyway—he had no doubt that, with her sharp mind and brutal skills, she would past the tests with flying colours.

Eve and him had met and grown close during the times he had been sent to bring over a number of techs that Q-Branch equipped its agents with and demonstrate some of their usages. His scheduled visits were part of a tactic of boosting drive and morality amongst trainees, that much he understood. Because if they had gotten this close to the finish line, then they still had that one last gruesome period in front of them, and a bit of a treat now and then as encouragement of what lay on the other side wouldn’t be too amiss, seeing as quite a handful of them were actually prone to dropping out around this time.

(It was both a clever and cruel tactic.)

But really, none of this had anything to do with the mission itself anyway. It was just a conversation he had had with that absolutely infuriating Double-O, whose status and designation Q hadn’t even revealed yet to Eve!

“Consistent with what?” he drawled.

Although, if Q were to admit it to himself, he didn’t really care too much about protocol and all that nonsense anymore. Not after how they had literally thrown him into that last mission because they had apparently decided that he was the most expendable out of the whole bunch.

(If he hadn’t gone, someone else would have, someone with even less experience than him, and they could’ve ended up dying—the tech _and_ 007\. This he knew.

But knowing that took nothing away from why this whole thing bothered him so much. Nothing at all.)

Eve raised an eyebrow, amused. “With his flirtatious behaviour,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, as though it was the most obvious thing.

“Flirtatious?” Q was incredulous. “He’s got a record of being straight you know.”

Eve snorted. “With what you’ve told me so far? Please.” Mirth glinted in her eyes. “There’s no such thing as _straight_ , straight with a side serving of gay, you know. Either he’s trying to hit on you for his own gain in the long run, which means that he’s betting on you becoming someone important and doting on him, _which means_ I’ll enjoy ripping him to shreds later should this be true,” she paused, if nothing then for a hint of the dramatics. Not that Q didn’t appreciate the sentiment. “Or he’s bi. And if so, then I wouldn’t blame him.”

When a flush rushed up Q’s pale cheeks, which only made the red tinge more prominent, Eve laughed.

“He’s not _flirting_ with _me,_ ” Q insisted, hopefully with enough force to stop her.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” She grinned, but something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.

Sebastian, one of the trainees in the same class as Eve, waved. He was a brunet with average height, blue eyes, and a slightly crooked smile. He seemed close to one of those guys who was suave enough that would gradually move up the ladder to perhaps be considered for a promotion to Double-O status. “We’re stretching in 15!” he told Eve. “Hey, Q!”

Q nodded back with a small, cursory smile, quickly luring the leftover pieces of lettuce into his mouth.

“Got it!” Eve replied, and when she returned her attention to Q, their conversation just now seemed to have temporarily left her mind. “He’s cute,” she hinted while starting to gather her lunch box together.

Q shrugged.

“Well, I gotta run. I’ll see you later then?” She stood and smiled.

“Of course. Good luck with your training.”

And with that, Eve was gone, joining her team once more.

One upside to this relationship, other than having a friend in Eve, was that at least he could talk to someone frankly without having to self-censor all the time. It was almost freeing: Q didn’t have to hide his work, and neither did Eve. And while Claire was a dear friend all the way from his uni days, some things were just not meant to be shared, not in his field of work.

 

-

-

 

**OCTOBER, 2011.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

The meeting ended up being quite a disaster. The Major was actively mumbling curses under his breath, and even R, who mostly tried to stay neutral, looked upset. It had been one of those dreaded mandatory meetings with the Board of Councils that they had every quarter, and though everyone involved had braced themselves for whatever that was to come (because these things were never pleasant), the entire thing had gone spectacularly tits up. Not least thanks to the fact that there was suddenly a new face replacing an old councilman, who was absent due to some medical condition that all of them seemed to be aware of but Q; this sod more obnoxious than the last.

“A merger!” Boothroyd exclaimed, still seething. Almost all of them had been dismissed from the meetings, only leaving the most senior members, by ranks, behind. And that was M for their party. “A bloody merger!”

“Major… please,” R tried to calm him down. It wouldn’t do any of them much good should someone unintended catch wind of this. “It’s still merely a suggestion—”

“A suggestion that is meant to undermine our work!” The older man’s eyes were wide with potent anger from undue injustice. “You heard them in there! That sod—” the new one “—mentioned the merger while saying that it would save resources. But Five has its own problems to deal with, and so do we. He was practically spitting at our work!”

And Q agreed. There was a smugness to this new man, Morrison, that burnt at his senses. In his mind, a merger would prove to be more chaotic than useful because that would mean reorganising their workflow in order to collaborate with and accommodate MI5, and vice versa.

It would also mean cutting back on employees, if nothing then for increased efficiency and _“cutting back on unneeded waste of the people’s taxes.”_

Q’s hands tightened around the folders that he was then holding on, not saying a word.

 

-

-

 

**EARLY NOVEMBER, 2011.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

“What are you doing?”

It took a while, but Bond managed to hunt Q down. The boy was surprisingly difficult to find, despite all indications that he would, and should, be holed up with all the other senior techs. The most unusual aspect was that he was down here in TSS, of all places, instead of being in Q-Branch and doing whatever important works that good boffins did as one would expect of someone with Q’s capabilities.

The fact that Q didn’t flinch, and was then raising his head up slowly to direct an already armed, irritated look at Bond, was a testament to the amount of control he had. And guts, too.

There weren’t a whole lot of people who had the balls to try and stare down a Double-O with a license to kill.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Q asked, carefully disassembling the device in his hand whilst still eyeing Bond, as though demonstrating his point.

Bond’s body still ached from where he had practically slammed himself against the side of a building, but he leant a hip patiently against the edge of Q’s workbench, and smiled. He had time. “I mean,” he began again, rephrasing his question, “why is someone like _you_ working in TSS?”

Something shuttered in Q’s eyes, even if his expression didn’t particularly change, and Bond knew he had hit a nerve. “Someone like me? I’m just a tech.” Q turned back to his work with a small scoff that Bond found entirely unconvincing. “Nothing wrong with working in TSS.”

“A tech that was sent to assist a Double-O on a high pressure mission, and succeeded,” Bond pointed out because really, even he could understand how good Q was at what he did. That first mission aside, Q had been helping with directing some of his other assignments, too, (at Bond’s own insistence, true, but that didn’t quite matter right then now, did it) and he had done well every time. Better than most other handlers Bond had had the displeasure of working with, and he was certainly more witty and less bothersome with his badgering than Boothroyd.

Professionally speaking, Bond would rather work with Q, since their rhythms matched. He understood that, behind the harmless, geeky look also lay a cold and calculating side that came on whenever necessary as long as the mission got done and Britain’s assets were protected. It was a side that any agent worth their salt would appreciate.

 _Personally_ speaking, aside from the aforementioned note that Q’s appearance wasn’t hard on the eyes, his voice just also happened to have a fascinating sort of purr as well, one that settled against his eardrum before seeping further and further in.

Bond watched as Q removed the tablet’s delicate innards with unsurprisingly nimble, steady hands.

“What do you want, Bond?” Q snapped when he was finally done, full on glaring at Bond now.

“Well,” Bond said, leaning forward in a sudden surge of one thing or another, the spontaneity springing forth in rapid response to his humming instincts.

He was close enough to distinguish the shards of reflective light in Q’s bright, green eyes.

“How about a pint?”

 

-

It was cold and raining when he got out of the station later on that evening. Just his luck really. Q rolled his eyes and opened up his umbrella in one swift movement before joining the stream of pedestrians, safely swaddled in his waterproof parka.

The only problem that predominantly occupied his mind then was that he was still repeating to himself why he _had_ accepted Bond’s offer in the first place: Claire was busy with her research; Eve was preparing for that one final test to be taken just before the new year… and he pretty much didn’t have any other drinking buddy. Yes. That was it.

(It wasn’t because of the enigmatic way Bond’s glacier blue eyes had pierced into his own, looking, for all intents and purposes, as though he was _seeing_ right into Q.

It certainly wasn’t because of how that mouth quirked up into a small smile when he had realised that Q wasn’t cowed by the man’s overcrowding presence, either.

Not at all. He was just in need of a drink with everything that was going on.)

 

_(“I can pick you up after work?” Bond offered, an amused lilt to his tone as Q adjusted his glasses, straightening them. Of course, this had come after a quick jab about if Q was old enough to drink, a topic which Q quashed sufficiently with a very real threat of standing Bond up for the night._

_“Just tell me the address,” Q said evenly, an air of mild disinterest about him._

_Bond seemed to pause at this for a moment, perhaps taken aback by the fact that not all those whom he inflicted himself on would fall easily into his arms._

_“Okay.” He nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Won’t you need something to note it down?”_

_“It’s just a few numbers with a street name. I think I can handle it, 007.” Q flashed a smile full of irony.)_

 

The pub was partially packed when he walked in, warm air and subtle chatter welcoming him in with a lulling lead. From behind the polished bar, the barman smiled at him, which Q returned in kind before allowing his eyes to sweep over the vicinity.

It took him exactly two seconds to spot Bond, the man on time for once in his life—more than five minutes early even… But it seemed he had already found a woman to chat up.

She seemed pretty with cascading wavy locks and a bright, crisp laugh. Not too far from the type that Q had seen the man go for on missions (the ones that he had been insisted to hop on anyway), but the more Q watched, the more he noticed that something was off. An attention for details, after all, was where a large part of his expertise lay.

He had seen Bond flirt before, had seen him turn on his charms full blast, and this wasn’t it. His body was angled away from the woman, one shoulder turned toward her, in fact; both his hands were fully visible on the table top, and his smile was polite at best.

Huh.

Q ordered himself a cocktail and made sure that he was hidden away behind one particularly hulking wood column just off to the side of the bar, and waited.

It was… interesting

(And no, he wasn’t smirking.)

“Thanks,” Q said, receiving and paying for the glass that the barman placed down in front of him before taking a small sip of it. It was good, unsurprisingly perhaps, considering that this was the very pub Bond had introduced him to.

Having been keeping a not so subtle eye on Bond, and the woman who was so clearly blocking the man’s direct view of the bar, Q supposed he should take pity on the man and release him from his misery.

Who knew, really. From Q’s experiences with Bond so far, the man had one general rule of thumb: flirt with anything that had a pulse—the more unavailable the better. But perhaps that was just the persona, and not the real human being behind it.

 _“Or, he’s bi.”_ Eve’s cheeky words rang, and Q waved it away quickly as he stood to walk over to Bond’s table.

For a second there, he wondered if he had imagined the relief in Bond’s eyes when they landed upon him.

“Hello,” Q smiled and, for whatever reason, changed tactics once he noticed just how close the woman was to climbing onto Bond’s, apparently, hesitant lap.

The fabric of Bond’s jacket was smooth and warm against his cold palm as he ran his hand over the man’s upper back, the lightest of touch, stopping only to squeeze and hold onto a shoulder.

“Did you have to wait long?” Q smiled pleasantly down at Bond, who was looking up at him as well, with his voice toned down by an octave.

And like the true field agent that Bond was, he wasted no time reaching up to place a hand on Q’s hip. “Not long at all.” His smile appeared genuine enough that Q had to pause, then turned his attention onto their now increasingly spluttering extra companion.

“And who’s this?” he asked, tipping his head toward her.

“I was just… stopping for a chat!” she said quickly, a drunken slur to her words. “I’ll get going now. Excuse me!”

She slipped away just like that, a frantic, embarrassed haze, and after blinking at her retreating back for a bit, Q stepped away from Bond. He would’ve felt slightly sorry for her, to be honest, if his brain didn’t just glitch a little right then and told him that the source of warmth just now had been quite… nice.

“You saved my hide there.” Bond’s comment drew him out of his reverie.

Q raised his eyebrow at the man. “I’m surprised that you actually needed the help.” Not really. Not about the needing help part anyway.

Bond shrugged. “One doesn’t just waste a good table. Besides, I was trying to be polite.” His posture seemed relaxed now, open, as he leant back against the cushion of the booth. He was right, of course, this was one of the more better positioned location in the pub, with all three doors in sight—the entrance, the exit, and the kitchen. “But really, with a bit of physical training, I think you’d make a decent field agent, Q.”

Q shook his head. “Spare me the drama, Bond. I’m perfectly comfortable where I am.”

The look Bond shot his way told Q the agent didn’t quite buy that last statement, but whether Bond bought it or not was of no consequence to Q. He just didn’t feel like being questioned about his life choices right then; not in the middle of a pub, and certainly not after what just happened.

And so, Q waited. If Bond kept on being an annoyingly curious cat with his sniffing about, then no matter how much of a shame it would be, Q wouldn’t hesitate to walk straight out of that door, rain or no rain.

Therefore, his mind eased some when he scoffed at what Bond chose to comment on next: “Though I would suggest choosing a less colourful drink next time.”

Q could sense the playfulness, and it made his lips curl upward, too. “What’s wrong with my cocktail? It’s potent, and it’s pretty. What more can you ask for?”

Bond looked at him for a long second at this, then grinned. “Three cheers to that.”

 

-

 

If there was one thing that Bond had to admit, even just to himself, it would be that Q sauntering over, all lithe grace and looking every bit a panther going for its prey, and stepping in to take control of that situation just now was beyond much of anything he had ever expected. For one, that was damn near a rescuing-a-damsel-in-distress act, with Bond _not_ being the proverbial knight in shining armour. And two, it was… hot.

But even before that, he was already turned on the moment Q had perfectly memorised the entire address without even batting an eyelash, utterly bored and oh so confident about his capabilities.

It was all a very sensual combination.

 

-

 

“I’ll drive you home?” Bond said, the temperature had dropped even more than before, and Q was wrapping the scarf he had pulled out of his messenger bag around his neck.

“Not to worry,” he replied, white puffs of air steaming somewhat at his glasses. “I can handle myself. It’s only a couple of colourful drinks after all.”

Bond’s subsequent chuckle was a gentle, low rumble deep in his chest, nose reddening in the cold. And it made Q _want_ , the palpation slotting in between his ribs and nestled around his heart, all fuzzy with alcohol racing through his system.

But he stole himself back to a safe distance, bid Bond goodnight, and walked quickly away toward the underground tube.

(It would strike him later, with stark realisation, that there was slim chance Bond just happened to pick a pub only metres away from a station.)

-

-

**9 DECEMBER, 2011.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

She looked like she would topple down from exhaustion at any given second, and there were awful bruises blooming on the visible skin just past her shirt sleeves and even on her face. The swelling looked brutal even though they were already yellowing around the edges, and it took everything in Q not to grimace despite his twisting guts.

“Congratulations,” he said with a tight smile. He was proud of her, and above all, she was proud of herself as well. That test had pushed all candidates to their limits, physically and mentally, and she had climbed out on top over so many others.

“Thanks.” Eve smiled back best she could with her split lip.

“I probably shouldn’t hug you right now,” Q laughed. “But drinks on me whenever you want, okay? I knew you’d pass it.”

“Flatterer,” she hitched a little at his shoulder with her own, humour in her tired eyes. “Drinks sound like just what the doctor ordered.” She paused a little. “Can Sebastian join? He passed too.” There was a suggestive note to her voice, and he rolled her eyes.

But Sebastian passed too then, huh… Not surprising he supposed.

“Sure,” Q said. “As long as you don’t try anything funny.” His eyes narrowed, and Eve clutched a hand over her heart.

“Oh honey, who do you take me for?” There was that Cheshire cat grin again, well, as much of a resemblance of it as she could manage right then, at any rate, Q could only shake his head in mock defeat.

As long as she seemed relatively unscathed; then, he supposed he could indulge her, if only for a bit.

 

-

-

**NEW YEAR’S EVE, 2011–2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

“Hey, we’re heading off for our break to have a ‘celebratory’ drink.” Hong-Joo raised the bag in her hand up; there were a couple of large bottles of sparkling juice inside, replacement for champagne, most likely. “Come hang with us. There’s nothing going on anyway.”

It was true; Q-Branch had just enjoyed a rather peaceful evening, all things considered. Almost too peaceful for the sceptics amongst them (more sceptical than usual, that is), but Q found that it was a nice, quiet note that he could enjoy every once in a while. They all deserved a bit of a break, didn’t they?

While Q would want to, and he said as much to Hong-Joo, he apologetically declined.

“One of us needs to be here to hold the fort,” he explained and raised his palms in a placating manner when she made a face.

“You’re really such a workaholic, you know,” she said, good-humoured in her light tone. They were all workaholic themselves; no one could survive the workload in this branch for long if they weren’t. “I’ll save you a cup. Just don’t regret it later.” She warned with a grin and took off, humming a tune he recognised had been circulating in their midst.

His phone buzzed a bit in his pocket.

 

 _Haven’t seen ur ugly mug since Christmas —_ Claire

 _There’s wine and curry if u come home ;) *wink wink* —_ Claire

 

Q smiled a little as he licked his lips before typing back a quick reply.

 _Working nightshift tonight (_ _｡_ _-_-_ _｡_ _)_

 _You have my blessing go ahead and have fun (_ _￣ー￣_ _;)_ _ﾉ_

_LOL_

_Poor boy_

_I shall be good and leave u some curry instead of devouring it all hehe_

_Good_ ( ◡ ‿ ◡ ✿) _Counting on you then_

_Happy New Year!_

_Happy New Year to u, too, luv <3 _

_Don’t let the work gobble u up again!_

 

There was soft music playing in the background, the compulsory notes of ABBA’s infamous song, and Q went back to tinkering with the leftover stuff he had brought up from TSS, what with adding in some of his own code to fix the lag and other glitches.

The green light of an internal phone call, of all things, going through suddenly flickered on, and Q quickly reached out to snatch up the headset.

“Q-Branch,” he replied crisply.

_“Dispatcher here. We have a call with designation Papa-Echo-Romeo 0237 on a secure line asking for Q.”_

Q blinked. PER…

Peril.

His lips twitched.

“Put them through,” he said, waiting for the click to turn on their branch’s own secure protocols, then dove straight in without so much as beating around the bush. “Let me guess, you were doing so well on preserving your earpiece, but it just happened to fall into a river you were running past, and… a crocodile ate it?”

Bond’s chuckle on the other end of the line unfurled a warm, smooth sound—not unlike the time they had gone out for a pint almost two months ago now, with the man overseas on another mission for nearly as long—and Q drew a breath in. He generally made a point not to think about that night… and how he had _not_ basically ran away. _“Hello to you, too, Q.”_

He was deflecting the whole question altogether, but considering that it was a few minutes to midnight, what with turning on a new leaf and all, Q decided not to rip Bond to shreds this time around. “What do you want, then?”

_“To hear your voice maybe?”_

Q paused in the middle of checking for the man’s chip—an insurance policy, as M had so quaintly dubbed it. The signal was still there, beeping strong. There was nothing strange that he could detect in Bond’s voice either, nothing to indicate any imminent danger.

He swallowed, then sniffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 _“What?”_ There was that infuriating smirk again. He had listened to Bond enough to just _know_ that it was there, and didn’t he just want to wipe it clean off right then. _“Aren’t I allowed to call up my favourite quartermaster?”_

Q rolled his eyes, something Bond of course wouldn’t be able to see. Just like he would never be able to see the small smile tugging at Q’s lips right then. “The Major has gone home for the night, 007. And also, you lost that privilege the moment you sabotaged your earpiece.”

 _“You said it as though I did it on purpose,”_ Bond said with feigned hurt. He paused before continuing, _“And you know full well what I’m talking about,_ Q. _”_

And yes, blatant emphasis aside, Q had understood what Bond said the first time, but he had elected to play ignorant. Anything else would only serve as a reminder of reality that he didn’t wish for right then. Not in that specific moment anyway.

He typed away at his computer. “I’m not a quartermaster. Least of all yours.”

 _“You could be—_ should _be—with your skills.”_

Q hummed a nonchalant noise in the back of his throat. “Maybe.”

 _“Don’t sell yourself short, Q. It’s unbecoming… especially with an ego your size.”_ The man laughed, and it was a sound that resonated against Q’s nerve ends, transferring in rippling tidal waves that rushed up along his spine.

The clock struck twelve, and the screens around him flashed fireworks.

But in front of him was a camera angle of Bond, or, to be more precise, his back and just a bit of his face, as the man stood inside a public phone booth, long overcoat around him for warmth.

_“Happy New Year, Q.”_

And Q told himself that, past the slightly grainy image and the fluttering flakes of snow, he could see a hint of a smile.

“Happy New Year, Bond.”

 

-

-

**27 JANUARY, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

It was an unusually bright day, marking a stark difference from the rest of the dreary weather prevalent round this time of year that had all seemed to just blend into one grey mass of _cold_ and _ugh_ for Q, who yawned and tried to keep his eyelids from gluing shut with sleep.

He had never been a morning person (and he suspected he would never remotely become one either, under any circumstances), but good sweets? Good sweets deserved the best efforts. Especially freshly baked good sweets, which always had Q moaning on and on about why they didn’t just make sweets and churn them out for the craving population around… lunch, or something. Who even operated during early mornings anyway?

But alas, since the usual standards of ‘common sense’ logic of this world seemed stacked against him, Q had no choice but to agonise himself through the process of getting up early and dragging himself out of bed at the crack of dawn.

Because chocolate muffins from this café were worth it, and he made a point to stop by as often as he could, even if that usually constituted to around once per week, on whatever given day he could crawl out of the flat soon enough and was not already sleeping in Q-Branch’s breakroom.

Q sighed. His mind was lulling and the cologne the gentleman in front of him was wearing, with its warm tone and earthy hints of resin, wasn’t helping.

In a short proximity from him, he could sort of hear what the cashier was saying, “One black coffee and one chocolate muffin for you, sir. That would be—”

He perked up at this with a sharp intake of breath, and when his head snapped to the display and saw there was only _one_ chocolate muffin left, which was already being taken away, he blurted something out before he could stop himself. “No!”

He blamed it on the early hours… It clearly lowered his inhibition.

Face burning hot and completely awake now, he could literally feel eyes prickling on his skin as he decided the best courses of action were either to wait and weather this out, or just walk straight out the door and wasting his efforts.

But before he could weigh out his option, a voice spoke up, “You can buy the one with blueberry cheese filling, and we can switch?”

It was the customer in front, a tall man who was then looking at Q with a smile, a patterned oxblood red tie around his neck that stood in stark contrast against his otherwise dark blue suit.

“Oh no, it’s—” Admittedly, he was _quite_ tempted by the idea.

The man shrugged with a small smile. “They’re the same price, so it’s up to you, really.”

Q blinked three times, stole a glance at the chocolate embedded muffin that had yet to be put into a brown paper bag, and nodded once. “Sure.”

 

-

 

They were standing off to the corner next to the counter where they would be receiving their drinks, trying to be inconspicuous during the morning breakfast rush, each with their own brown paper bag, and Q was quite pleased with the muffin he had secured himself.

“Jonathan,” the man introduced himself with his free hand extended.

Q, after an awkward fraction of a second, nervous butterflies in his stomach, took it. It was a firm grip. “Elliott.”

His eyes wandered back to the tie again, considering that it was quite the centrepiece of this man’s whole get up, a little absorbed by the little details.

“Too much?” Jonathan asked with a small smile, noticing the glance.

“Not at all.” Q shook his head. And he wasn’t lying, to be honest; there was a strange type of colour coordination there that was surprisingly soothing, despite its confidence. Firm, but not harsh… much like that handshake just now.

“One of my employees said it’s supposed to bring good luck, red, what with the new year and all,” Jonathan said, one forefinger smoothing against the fabric of the tie. “I figured I’d need it, seeing as I’m trying to expand my business.”

“You’re a CEO?” Q adjusted his glasses.

“You sound surprised.” Jonathan chuckled good-naturedly. It made Q feel a returning sensation of his just fading blush. “I don’t blame you. Most people look at me as if I’ve lost my mind when I said I wanted to try and… be adventurous at my age.” He sighed.

This had Q frowning. “You’re not that old,” he murmured, the words leaving his mouth just as he caught up with them and realised that it perhaps wasn’t the most reasonable thing he could’ve said.

He licked his lips and sheepishly sipped at his Earl Grey, perhaps a tad too hurriedly, if nothing then to squeeze in as much caffeine as he could right then to jumpstart his brain back to proper conscious land.

However, Jonathan’s smile only widened at this. “Right? I told those consulting people to bugger off and let me and my employees decide if our plans would work. I know the people I work with, and what they’re capable of, so I’m not worried about that. It’s only a matter of whether we are lucky enough to land a good deal at an opportune time or not.”

Q found himself smiling back, a thin sliver of wistfulness. That was the sort of straightforward leadership that he supposed he could appreciate. “What are you branching out toward, then, if you don’t mind me asking?” Q asked, adding that last part in quickly so as to not appear too rude… Ruder than he probably already was in the other man’s eyes, that is.

“Not at all. We’re just looking to get into security,” Jonathan replied easily. “But it is a fast growing industry right now thanks to technology advancements. And while we _are_ late in the game, I think we still have a competing chance, as long as we start first.”

“True.” Q nodded.

“What about you? What do you do?”

Q’s chuckle was slight, but it was only fair. He _had_ asked first. “Dabbling here and there,” which technically wasn’t a lie, no matter how unfortunate it was, “but I’ve been trying for basic computer programming.”

“Ah!” Jonathan smiled. “Once you got those degrees, maybe you can come work for me then.”

Q blinked, then realised with a suppressed snort of laugh that Jonathan had probably assumed he was still in uni.

Well, no harm done with that, he supposed, considering his sleepy, rumpled look right then with a barely tamed mop of hair atop his head. Besides, the less people knew about him, the better.

“Black coffee for Jonathan?” One of the girls behind the counter called out, and Jonathan perked up.

“That’s me,” he said, flashing Q a somewhat apologetic smile. “Thanks for the blueberry cheese, Elliott. I shall see you later.”

And with that grabbed his drink and exited the small café with a small wave at Q.

 

-

 

By eight o’clock, Q had finished his muffin and was on his second cup of tea, lots of sugar and only a tiny splash of milk, thank you very much. He was waiting for the tea bag to steep properly before binning it, giving himself a few moments of temporary break in between, when Hong-Joo swooped in and snatched up another mug.

“Have you slept at all?” He took one look at her and frowned.

A groan was all the answer he needed. “Don’t even talk to me about sleep. Outsourcing has been unloading so much extra paperwork on me that I _dreamt_ about filling out forms last night! Can you believe it?”

Ah… outsourcing. One of those things that had been inflicted upon them in the past month since the beginning of the new year, what with letting samples go to military-base scientific facilities for analysing and collecting data, amongst other things. The idea behind this, aside from resources saving, was that one should never put all the eggs in one basket and all…

Or so they said.

Q sipped at his tea and quietly slipped away. He supposed he was still that least bit lucky enough to not have to deal with _that_.

 

-

-

 

**11 FEBRUARY, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

It was sleeting outside when Bond appeared choking on a mouthful of his own blood through the CCTV.

 

-

 

“Q?”

The sound of that voice crashed around him like a wave of numbed tingling singeing at his nerve ends. Like using extreme heat to sear off and close up a bleeding wound.

If only for a bit, he was glad there were only dim sources of light illuminating the room, and one of them was already the laptop screen by his side as he turned to look at Bond, who was then trying not to wheeze around his words: “What are you doing—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Q cut him off. He told himself it was so that Bond could preserve his energy, but really… the sound of shallow air grappling for purchase was starting to bother him too much. “Working, obviously.”

It was reminiscent of the conversation they had had months ago, and Bond’s smile was grim.

Three seconds of quietness later, Q decided that the relatively total silence he had been conducting his work in for so long was beginning to irritate him as well. Other than just the odour of disinfectant and beeping monitors… the same monitors that had been reassuring him of Bond’s continued life.

“One of your lungs collapsed because you were shot in the back,” he said, hating the seeping emotion there that sounded somewhat like accusation. It wasn’t. But he _was_ pissed.

Bond was shot in the back by _his own gun_.

There was no way to explain the gross negligence… the sheer _recklessness_ —

There had to be away to prevent any of such chances from happening, ever again.

“Were you worried?” Bond was too pale, his voice too bad a case of rasping, to make the smirk as effective as it should be, and Q scowled.

“Careful before I stab you with a tranquiliser,” he mumbled darkly, but the edge wasn’t really there either.

Bond managed a few laughs before wheezing and stopping altogether, and Q’s cold toes curled in his shoes as he watched the man fought to rein control once more over his almost dead body, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead from the efforts.

“Get some rest, 007,” Q said, but instead of standing up and going straight for the door, he only turned and got back to his work, typing quietly away, a rigid set to his shoulders.

It was a while before the answer came, worn and accepting, “Roger that.”

 

-

 

A week later, when Bond had somehow found a way to haul his barely healed body and escaped from Medical like a particularly troublesome feral cat that still had a few lives yet left inside of it, Q would be delivered a small packet (already checked through by their internal delivery services) the size of his palm, as light as a few pennies combined.

Inside were a note and one small keychain. The keychain had a cupcake charm dangling at the end of it—a cupcake with swirls of chocolate frosting on top.

The note, in neat but sharp handwriting, said:

_“Potent and pretty.”_

 

-

 

Of course, Eve took the chance to laugh her arse off about it.

“He called you a cupcake!” she said between laughs, her face reddening from a lack of oxygen. “He called you a _chocolate cupcake_!”

One of these days, Q was going to feed Bond to those very crocodiles he had claimed to have eaten his earpiece in his mission report.

Bastard.

 

-

-

 

**15 MARCH, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

“So… Bulgaria, huh.” Q smiled, a little excited, a little sad also. “First long-term mission.”

Eve nodded, checking through her equipment. “It’s about time. Sebastian has already been dispatched.”

Despite the seemingly distracted hum she had going on, her eyes were sharp and assessing as she weighed everything in her grip, one at a time as though introducing them to her. Q understood the rationality behind it; one couldn’t work very well if one didn’t know one’s own tools.

“I won’t be long,” she continued in the same way someone would tell their sibling to eat dinner first and not to wait up.

Q scoffed. “You can’t guarantee that.” Which was true, no matter how unfortunate that prospect was. “Just focus on your assignments.”

“Of course I would.” She smiled. “Do take care of yourself,” Eve added, something softening in her eyes. “ _Eat_. And eat real food, too, not subsisting on sweets and caffeine.”

“Sugar is a food group,” he said, adding a healthy dose of indignation.

“It’s not, and I know you know it.” Eve shot him a look, at which Q huffed before sighing, licking his lips, and giving her a brief hug.

He had seen enough death and injuries already.

 

-

-

 

**23 MARCH, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

While he had known right from the start that Q knew how to defend himself and could do it well enough, it was still mesmerising to watch Q having a go at MI6’s indoor gun range, bullet after bullet hitting their targets with razor sharp precision.

Once out of ammo, Q finally lowered his gun—a standard issue Walther, Bond realised, with a few modifications here and there that he couldn’t quite make out from this current distance—and removed his mufflers.  

“What is it, Bond?” His voice rang in the otherwise unoccupied space without so much as turning to face him, and Bond’s lips twitched some.

It had become a sort of ritual for them, this strange dance that neither fully engaged nor completely separated them. Bond didn’t suppose he blamed Q.

“Just enjoying the show,” Bond replied easily.

“What show?” Q said, irritation palpable but subdued at the same time.

“You? Shooting?” The agent shrugged. “What’s not to enjoy?”

Q was jotting something down onto a notepad, looking, to all intents and purposes, absorbed in whatever he was doing, if Bond hadn’t caught the tail end of a quick look flickering his way.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Q murmured.

“I _am_ ridiculous.”

At this, Q paused and finally (finally) straightened enough to face him. He adjusted his glasses—a nervous tic, Bond had come to realise—and drew in a breath.

“Yes, you are,” he agreed. “What do you want?”

It seemed like he was always asking this question, and Bond… Bond would forever avoid it. In truth, there were few times in his life where he would actively look into the logic behind his doing anything, because passion remained a major catalyst in his veins, and passion was rarely reasonable.

The only thing he understood was his want. And what he wanted, in this situation, in its simplest form, was for Q to be his quartermaster.

Lately, he didn’t feel like trusting his life to anyone else.

“What are you doing?” Bond answered, one question for another in kind. “Looks like you’re testing something.”

Q’s Adam’s apple bobbed minutely even as one of his eyebrow arched upward. “Yes. Just a prototype,” he said, obscured and dismissive.

“Anything I can get my hands on?” Bond’s hands were in his trousers’ pockets. “Like a customised exploding pen or something? Boothroyd hasn’t been doling them out anymore recently.”

“Not a chance.” Q scoffed, as though it was the most abominable suggestion he had heard all day. “Maybe the reason why he’s not _doling_ them out anymore, as you so quaintly put it, is because you agents keep rigging them off even when it is _not_ necessary.”

“I doubt it.” Bond chuckled, his protest thin, and they both knew this. When he, being the spy that he was, tried to peer over Q’s shoulder to see what he was writing, however, Q pulled it away, eyes narrowed.

“Don’t even think about it.” He stared Bond down, or tried to anyway.

Bond smirked. “Did you get my present?”

Q’s expression darkened instantly. “Twat,” he said, quickly putting all the equipment he had away.

“I thought it suited you,” Bond pressed, unperturbed by Q’s snap, grinning now, in fact. “How about I treat you to a cupcake? You like sweets.” Anyone who knew Q for more than a day and didn’t know this deserved to have their eyes gouged out.

Q said nothing and continued to shove his notes into his messenger bag, zipping it up in a sweeping motion.

He pushed past Bond, and for a moment, the agent thought Q was actually going to walk away for real this time… until he stopped in his track and said over his shoulder, “Well?”

“Yes?” Bond perked up.

“What?” He squinted from behind his glasses. “Going back on your word of treating me now, are you?”

And just like that, something heavy and tight that had been sitting in the middle of his chest uncoiled, and Bond smiled. “Not at all.”

 

(No, he had never once stop to consider what these internal aches were.

Didn’t want to. Would never want to.)

 

-

-

 

**29 MAY, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

**EMERGENCY: CODE ORANGE – ON STANDBY.**

 

The situation had escalated quicker than anyone foresaw. But in retrospect, no one had even willingly agreed to outsourcing in the first place, not even MI5, and now, valuable information had been stolen. Right before their eyes.

But right then was not the time for blaming and finger-pointing. They were doing the best they could to solve the problem, going into overdrive whilst doing so even, and this was where being a mere _tech_ became a sore problem.

It meant that there was only so much _authorized_ work he could do, and Q despised it to the core.

However, all in all, he supposed he should be glad that such a situation didn’t last long, seeing as an embedded MI6 team had managed to intercept the route through which the information was being traded, and a transaction would be taking place the following day in order for them to once again secure lost intelligence.

They were sending in 007 as an extra insurance measure, to ascertain that everything made it back to British soil without fail.

“This has been a total embarrassment, so you need to resolve this as quickly as possible, 007. For the sake of us all,” Boothroyd mumbled vehemently under his breath. It was he who was in charge of outfitting Bond this time round.

Probably because a mere techie wouldn’t be able to get it right when it was something this important to Queen and Country, Q brain helpfully supplied, and he swatted it away before sliding the briefcase over to the Major.

“Have I ever failed you, Major?” Bond’s smile was charming in its usual cool confidence. And somehow, this familiar attitude seemed to calm the older man down, soothing his nerves a little.

“Your equipment,” Boothroyd continued, seemingly having shaken himself a little out of his own temper that had gone from grandfatherly to raging anger in the past few days, and opened said briefcase for Bond to see its content.

But really, the entire institution had been on edge… rightfully so.

“Here’s your mission file.” Boothroyd handed the folder over and shot Bond a significant look. “Remember to play nice with your teammates, James.”

Bond widened his smile an increment, and somehow, Q, even at a couple of metres away, could sense the lilt of irony in it. “Of course I will. I’ve even memorised their names.”

“Really now?” Even Boothroyd was sceptical, but right then, he was too busy giving the equipment one last check to notice how Bond had finally succeeded in catching Q’s eyes, something he had been stubbornly, doggedly trying to do since the moment he sauntered into the armoury.

“Yes,” Bond said, not letting Q’s gaze go the whole while, as though proud of his own accomplishment. There was something in those blue chips, something playful, something almost gentler now than how they had been the first time Q had accidentally looked into them, that made him swallow, the back of his neck warm. “Erol Kaya, Andrei Constantin,” Bond continued leisurely.

“And our MI6 agent, Sebastian Ronson.”

 

-

-

-

-

 

_“Agent down.”_

 

-

 

-

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

-

 

_In retrospect._

_In retrospect… He should’ve always known this was going to happen._

_Cats ran out of lives, and Double-O agents were never meant to last._

 

-

 

**2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

He didn’t attend the funeral, obviously. The obituary was atrociously stiff and formal, and he hadn’t wanted to be in any part of that farce.

The dead were buried, and the world moved on. But here was the problem: there was no body recovered for Bond, and they had buried an empty casket. Some said it was nearly symbolic. Q said it was shite. Period.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Q looked up slowly, not surprised as he had picked up on Eve’s stilettos for a while now. “I’m good,” he said, managing a smile.

She felt guilty, he knew. It was a normal reaction to have, and one that saddened him. Because if there were one thing he knew for sure, it was that this was in no way her fault. (He should know. He had listened to the mission recording twenty some times.)

“You’ve been here since the day before yesterday,” Eve pointed out, voice quiet. She sounded a little like Claire right then.

 

_(“Elliott? Elliott! You’re soaking wet! Elliott! Oh my God… can you stand?! Hold on!”)_

 

The algorithm continued searching, and he kept on burying himself in more work. He even joined a project that he had previously expressed _no_ desire to engage in… Partly because M had specifically, _personally_ , asked him to ( _“This is the technological advancement we need to keep up with the statuses of our agents, their locations and well-being, and we need it as quickly as possible,” she had said, being the readily manipulative person that she was_ ). And partly because he didn’t want to have room to think. To feel.

He shrugged. “I can stay here for much longer than that.” And he had done that before. Multiple times, too.

That wasn’t the point she was trying to make, he knew, but he didn’t particularly care at that time.

 

-

-

 

**OCTOBER, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

It was a raining Thursday when MI6 Headquarters went and blew up.

It was also a Thursday, one week later—one week of cleaning away the rubbles and retrieve the buried, mangled bodies; one week of scrambling everything they could for a sudden, necessary move—when he returned, having risen out of the bitter ashes like a phoenix resurrecting itself back to life.

But here was the thing: they hadn’t spoken a word since.

 

-

-

 

**OCTOBER, 2012.**

 

One of the perks of technically ‘dying’ for 3 months was that he had ample time (too much time) on his hands to just… think, something which the rhythm of his other lifestyle didn’t exactly afford.

However, when the thin veil of ignorance was shoved aside, what was left?

Not much. It was an entirely uninspiring and unsurprising answer, and Bond picked out the first woman who caught his eyes at the bar—a brunette with long, sturdy limbs, wavy hair, and eyes a shade of murky hazel—and fucked her into the sheets, despite the shots of pain rippling through his muscles.

For some reason, she kept coming back. But the more sex they had, the more he listened to the desperate sighs of her moans… the more it all sounded wrong. The pitch wasn’t right, neither was the tone; the nails digging in his back seemed too long, too sharp. And he didn’t know what he had been expecting.

He didn’t know what he was thinking, in the haze of hurt and betrayal that he had been wading chest deep in… until he saw MI6 blew up on the news ( _“six dead, many more injured, with the victims being—…”)_ , and the only thing he could see was a blinding green that tore his vision in two.

 

-

 

Bond drank and drank and popped his pills and passed out and vomited the entire acidic content in his stomach and recycled the process. He didn’t stop until the tremors began to set in and he couldn’t tell which wound hurt more anymore—the actual physical ones, or the throbbing mass that had wedged itself in the middle of his chest and had been sitting there like an unmoving boulder ever since he had managed to stumble his way back to this godforsaken shack by the sea.

He threw up again, but this time, he rinsed his mouth and decided right there and then it was time to move.

 

-

 

It was actually Tuesday when he got back. The whole city was dark and raining in the typical nature that London was, with the only difference being that the dreariness wasn’t solely caused by the weather anymore.

It took Bond more than one day of waiting in front of a building before a familiar flash of parka showed up, huddled and cold and small, and Bond’s mouth twitched in a perched shout, but before it could claw its way out and fling itself past his lips, Bond turned and quickly left.

Contemplative hours were over, and he didn’t plan to dwell on his recent findings any more than he used to.

He went looking for M next. If nothing, then the old bitch would still have good whiskey in her cabinet.

 

-

-

 

**NOVEMBER, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

The Major passed away after suffering fatal injuries to his head and spine, and Bond did drop by to pay the old man the respect he deserved after devoting years and years of his life to the service and to keeping Bond alive.

Q-Branch had moved underground, much like the rest of MI6… those who survived the blast, that is. R had been made Quartermaster, and why that was, Bond would never understand. It wasn’t that he was biased due to his dislike of R, inasmuch as it was about how _Q_ was the more capable one—the one who could actually function in between sections of Q-Branch, who had done all sorts of work there, and whose nickname reflected the position he should’ve been given.

But, amidst this train of thought, Bond caught himself, and shook it away. It wasn’t what he had wanted to think about, and right then wasn’t the time either.

He kept repeating this point to himself even as he sauntered into the new Q-Branch, which looked about as half-finished as the one leading it right then, knowing that his posture was perfect after having practised it over and over in front of the mirror before donning his new suit and heading in.

R (because he would forever be _just_ R, no matter how high he managed to climb the ladder) greeted and debriefed him, and Bond pretended to listen as he avoided a particular pair of eyes amongst the sea of scrambling techs.

“Walther PPK/S 9mm short, armed with our latest invention of microdermal sensor in the grip,” R continued, and suddenly, Bond frowned. He had seen this before… “It’s been coded to your palm prints which makes it so only you can fire the gun. The latest of its kind, so that makes you one of our first agents to use it in the field.”

_(“One of your lungs collapsed because you were shot in the back.”)_

This was… It was Q’s; the one he had been testing at the range. (Months and months ago when things still actually clicked right, and he could still fit in his old skin.)

The rest of the meeting went by without another hitch, not that there had been one in the first place, but when Bond looked up, Q was nowhere to be seen.

 

-

-

 

“What are you doing?”

Q looked up from his computer screen. R was there. A number of people had gone home for the day, but thanks to obvious recent incidents, quite a few of them remained on the skeleton crew as well, more so than usual, guard up on high. But to be honest, aside from those who had tragically passed away… their numbers had dwindled some as well, a handful of people leaving due to the scarring trauma of a near death experience.

“Just going through the glitches in the installed programmes in our devices,” Q replied. It bothered him too much: he kept fixing them, and they kept coming back, which shouldn’t be possible.

R sighed and leant against the desk. Q told himself that he should be calling R ‘Quartermaster’ now… he really should, but the memory of the Major and his jokes and the casual laughs they had had were still too fresh in his mind, and that had always stopped him short of actually achieving what he wanted.

Besides, other things were occupying his mind as well… other things that he didn’t feel like sparing any more energy on right then.

“You should rest,” R said, the same thing people had been telling him over and over. “There’s no need for that, not right now.”

“It’s _our_ system.” Q blinked. “If there are glitches, then they need to be fixed.”

“And they will be. But should that be our priority right now?” R raised an eyebrow.

Q frowned. “Shouldn’t it?” He didn’t phrase that as much of a question, really.

R inhaled without quite sighing the lungful of air out. “What _I_ think we should be focusing on right now, is for us to concentrate on finding the madman behind all this, and end this widespread chaos and fear once and for all.”

It wasn’t necessarily untrue, giving that M and MI6’s entire institution had already been under immense pressure from the government after the hard drive containing the identities of all of NATO embedded agents in the Middle East had been lost. Many people had died as a result of it, and this last bombing, right in the heart of MI6, certainly hadn’t helped.

The merger had gained a momentum stronger than ever before, and by now, they were appointing another Director-General to oversee everything, including the introduction of another security service that was heralded to be ‘the end of the human espionage era.’

But.

Not fixing as much as they could now would only add more to their already substantial pile of problems.

R blinked slowly at him. “Rest first, okay?” He reached out and squeezed Q’s shoulder. “I need you well to help me with all this.” The quirks of his smile looked sad. “It’s… more overwhelming than I had expected it to be.”

Q’s fingers on the keyboard twitched. “I will help you. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Good,” R nodded, withdrawing his hand, the light of the monitor sharp and harsh against the contours of his face. “Thank you.”

 

-

-

 

**NOVEMBER, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

What Q didn’t say was how nauseated he had felt when Eve informed them that Bond had actively destroyed his earpiece before going off the grid. Again.

 

( _No. Don’t care too much. It’s got nothing to do with you._

He _’s got nothing to do with you._

 

 _He’s going to be fine._ )

 

But all of that resolved itself within twenty-four hours when the signal from Bond’s radio went live and broadcast its location.

And now with the very man who bombed them captured and detained a few levels further underground than even _they_ were, Q-Branch was bustling in preparations to decode Silva’s laptop.

Bond was there.

Q placed the stacks of files they had collected from Silva’s island down, and caught himself staring at the man’s back before turning away quickly.

“Q.” It took every shred of control for him not to jump. It was R. “The team has established an isolated network to work in, and so far, it’s looking to be ridden with failsafe protocols to wipe the memory should we try to access the computer.” He paused. “I heard you told the Major before that you had… extensive knowledge about this. Think you can assist?”

Q blinked. There was something about this that raised the hackles of his brain, but the information he had just received was sending his brain into coding mode quicker than he could stop it to peruse whatever that was running in the background, and Q bit the insides of his cheeks. “I suppose,” he said finally, and R nodded.

 

-

-

 

As usual, things went tits up from there and downhill onwards.

Why it surprised him when Bond called ( _P-E-R 0237, designation expunged from the system_ ), Q didn’t know. Hearing the man’s voice speaking directly to him (or as directly as it could be over the comms) pinched at Q’s stomach, but he kept going steady anyway. Because nothing less would cut it.

Bond, and M, required his help.

That was the only reason why Bond called.

 

-

-

 

**DECEMBER, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

The moment all the dust settled, people from the newly established Joint Security Service was crawling all over the place, not unlike vultures descending upon a rotting carcass. But with all that had happened, with M gone… none of them really had much of any resistance left—resisting something inevitable would only serve to be futile anyway.

Bond was nowhere to be seen, not since M’s funeral, but even then, the man had only been like a phantom in the corner, there one second and gone the next without lingering long. Nobody had expected him to anyway because while M _had_ had Bond more or less shot off a moving train, they had always shared a sort of bond, a special understanding of the so-called game, that anyone who knew them was aware of to varying degrees.

An internal investigation had been conducted, because there was always a need for someone to pin the blame on, and it had been nothing short of one of the most frustrating and obnoxious hours of Q’s life.

 

 _(“Did you or did you not plug Silva’s computer_ directly _into MI6’s system?”_

 _“I did not intend to plug Silva’s laptop into MI6’s system. To the best of my knowledge, we were working on it in an isolated network, and the cables you are so kindly showing me there through the CCTV feed were there to connect the laptop to_ that _isolated network.”_

 _“Were you_ aware _at all of the consequences that would bring?”_

_“No, I was not. Because as I already stated, it was to my understanding that we were operating on an isolated network. An isolated network that turned out to be not so isolated at all, and was connected to the main network.”)_

 

It blew over in the end, for him anyway. The investigation itself had shifted gears, and they eventually realised that it had been a cabling error made by one of the techs who had resigned a little more than a month prior. After Psych evaluation deemed said tech to be experiencing PTSD due to being in close quarters to the blast, he had just decided to forego medical leave and quit, saying that this was just getting more dangerous than he had ever signed up for.

Q sighed. “Claire?” he called out; the flat was dark, and the cats wound at his feet when he came in and closed the door. “Claire?” He knocked on her door gently, seeing that the light in her room was on. “Are you okay? I bought takeaways.”

“Yeah,” came a scratchy reply. “Sorry, I think I caught the flu that’s been going around, so I barricaded myself in.” She coughed. “Just leave the food in the fridge. I’ll crawl out and fetch it later when I’m better.”

He pursed his lips. “Okay. Get better soon, yeah?”

There came a weak noise of reply of one thing or another, but not much of anything else.

 

-

-

 

**FRIDAY, DECEMBER, 2012.**

**LONDON, U.K.**

 

The thing with Nine Eyes, or whatever the name of that ‘innovative’ security service that Denbigh, Director-General of the Joint Security Service, was trying to sell, was that when one considered all the terms, it was most certainly too intrusive and extremely dubious in many regards, from information rights to consent… all of it.

But right then, that wasn’t the focus of his attention. Right then, he was absorbed in the last stages of his narrowing down the list of everyone who could’ve accessed the operating system they had installed on all their internally issued devices. Because those glitches simply could _not_ have spawned themselves into existence, and not repeatedly on the same devices that Q had cleared those problems up already.

This was after his supposed shift, and he was quietly going through the CCTV footage… without authorized access. Q had managed to record and pinpoint a specific timeframe in which he had mended the glitches, and yet they recurred two days after on the same mobile. There was a reason why he was so obsessed and concerned by this: if he kept on eliminating the issue and it kept on coming back anyway, then there was only one possibility… Someone was actively introducing a malware into their operating system.

It took quite a bit of riffling through all the data and recordings before he suddenly spotted that one part of them had been _entirely_ cut out, expunged from the system so cleanly that Q couldn’t recover it. Even the auditing had been disabled and the logs completely cleared, rendering it almost impossible to trace back to who could’ve done this.

His eyes flickered down to the timestamp of the available footage just before the erased part occurred and frowned.

It was roughly around 1345…

Right before the time R would usually retreat to his separate office every single day to deal with the paperwork.

 

Ice ran cold in his veins, and Q could practically feel his stomach drop.

No… It couldn’t be…

His mind spluttered.

It could _not_ be.

 

_“I heard you told the Major before that you had… extensive knowledge about this. Think you can assist?”_

 

But the thing was that, he had told the Major about knowing failsafe protocols, yes; however, his exact words were: _“I dabbled in it a little bit, but not much.”_ He remembered this bit very well because, no matter how much it bothered him, he couldn’t say that he invented it for fear of sounding snobbish in the process. He had only been interviewing at the time, after all.

There was no other conversation about the topic since.

 

“Q?”

 

Nerves high-strung, he couldn’t stop himself from flinching, just for a little bit.

His throat closed when he looked up to find R standing there in front of him, right behind his computer.

“I thought you had gone home?” R smiled.

It was like air had gone solid in his lungs, and Q worked his throat. “I…” He swallowed, caught off guard and now his mind was spinning. “I did.”

Q found himself returning that smile, back burning up, as he casually exited all the windows he had been accessing and cleared his own log. “I forgot my coat.” He picked up the new grey woollen coat that Claire had given him for Christmas and put it on before slinging his bag over his shoulder and across his chest.

“Ah.” R nodded. “Safe trip home then.”

Q nodded, too, and walked away from his desk, leaving the office with the most gradual steps he could without outright running.

 

-

-

 

**NOW.**

 

The tube is packed with regular office workers heading back home for the day, all absorbed in their own bubbles, their own worlds. Weary from work.

Q grips at the strap of his bag, head stuffed full of cotton as his mind tries to process and settle the information it has just received. All the how’s and _why’s_ …

And if he has been made. Has he acted naturally enough? Would R be fooled or would he figure it out? And when he does, what will he do?

_Kill you, obviously_ , the clinical part of his brain hisses, and Q can feel the gooseflesh rising on his skin, eyes a little wide as the ground beneath him rumbles.

The rest of his mind is shouting, screaming at each other with warring instincts just as the overhead speaker rings with another announcement, temporarily washing away all his thoughts.

That is when his world tilts on its axis.

One sharp shove in the back, and Q now suddenly registers that he is falling, the blaring headlights of the upcoming train too bright in his eyes, and the distant high-pitched screams sound almost muffled against the blood rushing through his ears.

_In retrospect, Q supposes he has always known this is coming. It is as if the shadows have been swarming all around him, whispering and cold and seeping under his skin before morphing into something monstrous that he has never been able to see—other than that tiny voice in the back of his mind that keeps telling him to run. Run. RUN._

_He didn’t._

_And like the slouching ominous mass that it is, it seems Death has finally caught up with him._

In that fraction of a second, Q can hear the tattooing pace of his own heart as time seemingly winds to a stop…

And begins again.

The chest he falls against is firm and steady despite the fact that Q has collided into it with the force of a man who was just now hurling to his death.

Familiar leathery notes of cologne and fresh rain fill his nose in a rush as his senses heighten to the extremes in response to the pumps of adrenaline that are currently inflaming his systems, tearing him apart and building him back up at the same time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Q looks up, broken tremors coursing through weakened limbs, Bond is there…  unwavering and not letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr also, which you can find [here](http://azure7539arts.tumblr.com/).


End file.
